‘Back,’ I shouted, ‘back.’
We broke cover and ran as fast as we could from an enemy bent on revenge. The Gauls were big men, obviously the most fearsome of King Ambiorix’s warriors, but they could not outrun us and so we were able to keep a safe distance between them and us. I saw two arrows planted each side of the track ahead of me and ran past them, then stopped and turned. The others also stopped and turned around, then began jeering at the Gauls pursuing us. The warriors must have thought we were dead meat, for they slowed and licked their lips in anticipation of slaughtering us. The tattooed warrior pointed his spear at me and smiled, revealing a mouth full of brown teeth. He hardly flinched when the first arrow hit his chest, just looked slightly bemused as he glanced down to see the shaft buried in his body. The two arrows had denoted the position of the rest of my archers, who now began cutting down the Gauls with fearsome efficiency from either side of the track, which was soon littered with dead. The enemy checked their advance and locked their shields to the front to form a wall against our arrows.
‘Fall back,’ I shouted, and again we ran back towards the clearing. The Gauls watched us go and then charged after us, urged on by their leaders on horseback, richly attired warriors in mail shirts, silver horned helmets and blue leggings.
We raced back to the edge of the clearing where the Thracians were massed in their centuries. Behind us were the Gauls, screaming their fury and yelling their blood-curdling war cries. Whether they saw the wall of shields in front of them I did not know, but I did know that they wanted to kill me and the rest of my archers, reduce us to pieces of offal for what we had done to them. Then I tripped, I don’t know what tripped me, a tussock of grass or a large stone, but whatever it was it sent me sprawling to the ground, scattering the arrows I had left over the hatd earth and spilling my bow from my hand. Ahead of me my archers were streaming through two paths that had appeared in the Thracian ranks; behind me the yells and screams got louder. Time seemed to slow as I rolled over on my back, to see a fat, ugly brute with a huge double-headed axe slow to a walk as he neared me. Then he was standing over me and grinning. I could smell his pungent odour of sweat and age-old dirt and lay transfixed as he raised his mighty axe above his head. This was where I was going to die, in a forest clearing in northern Italy at the hands of a rancid Gaul.
The Gaul was screaming in triumph, his mouth wide open, when the arrow went through it and lodged in the back of his throat. Then Gafarn was standing over me and roughly yanking me to my feet. I quickly regained my wits, gathered up my bow and ran as fast as I could for the sanctuary of the Thracian ranks. We made it with seconds to spare, and as I rushed past the first two ranks I heard a sword blade clattering on the rim of a shield, missing me by inches. Because we had been between the Thracians and the Gauls, Spartacus’ men had been unable to throw their javelins, but as I and my men collapsed on the ground gulping for air, safely behind the Thracian line, the last two ranks in each century turned around, marched back a few paces, then ran forward and hurled their pila over the ranks of those in front and into the Gauls who were now hacking and jabbing against the Thracian shields.
As Spartacus had predicted, the Gauls attacked in a mad, disorganised rush of feral rage, hoping that the fury of their charge would carry all before it. But their assault broke lie a wave against a seawall. For a few seconds the Thracian line buckled but did not break, then the front rank went to work with their swords, stabbing them at exposed thighs, legs, bellies and groins. Very few of the Gauls wore armour, some were naked, and though they hacked and jabbed with their swords, spears and axes, they could not find a way through the disciplined ranks of their opponents. The first rank held their shields in front of them, the second rank held their shields above the heads of those in front, and all the while the front rankers stabbed with their swords. Three inches of steel, Spartacus had once told me, was all it takes to kill a man. And how the Thracians were killing now, grinding their way forward one pace at a time. The Gauls in the rear were pushing those in front forward, hoping to create enough momentum to push through our ranks, but all they did was push their comrades onto Thracian swords. Death in battle is seldom instantaneous; rather, it is a long drawn-out process. A few, the lucky ones, are pierced through the heart or have their throat slit, but most are run though the belly by a spear, slashed by the edge of a sword or stabbed by its point, or hit by an arrow or slingshot. They die bleeding from the resulting hideous wounds, screaming or weeping as they watch their lifeblood gushing from shattered limbs and sliced bellies. If they stumble and fall in the melee they are crushed to death by their comrades or the enemy in the ebb and flow of the battle line, or are suffocated by a press of the dead and dying piled on top of them. In their terror they foul their leggings and piss themselves, the stinking effusion mixing with blood and churned-up earth to create a disgusting manure of death. And so it was today as the Gauls were slaughtered. The terrible din of battle resounded across the clearing and reached a crescendo as the Thracians gave a mighty cheer and then began to advance. They stepped on and over their dead enemies, ramming their feet down hard on faces, necks and arms, shattering bones as they did so.
‘They are breaking,’ I said to Gafarn.
‘Yes, highness, they are.’
I turned to him and offered my hand to him. ‘You saved my life, I am in your debt.’
He grinned. ‘I had no choice, Gallia would never have forgiven me.’
In front of us the rear rank of the Thracians threw another volley of pila, the shafts angling through the air to pierce flesh and strike shield. If they hit a shield the soft iron of their shaft immediately bent, making it impossible for it to be freed from the shield and thus rendering it useless to its owner. I saw a riderless horse bolt in terror into the trees, and saw another horse carrying a man wearing a green cloak, steel cuirass and helmet, and armed with a long sword in his right hand and a round shield on his left side painted with some sort of animal symbol. He was riding up and down behind his men, waving his sword, urging his men on. He gestured to and instructed other mounted warriors, who rode away to do his bidding. I recognised him. It was King Ambiorix, who by his frantic activity was obviously seeing any hopes of victory rapidly disappearing. The Thracians were still pushing forward, grunting like pigs as they cut through the wall of flesh in front of them.
I turned to Gafarn. ‘An arrow, quick.’
He passed me a shaft and I placed it in my bowstring. I could see Ambiorix, waving his sword in the air and shouting, though he was several hundred feet away and I could not discern his voice amid the general tumult of the battle.
‘You’ll never hit him from here.’ Gafarn had guessed my intention and his archer’s instinct told him that the shot was too long against a target that only fleetingly showed itself. I took aim but realised that Gafarn was right. Ambiorix was riding up and down the line, shouting encouragement, and he frequently disappeared behind other riders.
‘You’re right,’ I said to Gafarn. ‘I need to get a clear shot.’